Mel’s sweet-sounding laugh fills the car. “I’m telling you it’s right.”

Shaking my head, I stare down at the newspaper on my lap. “I’m almost certain the answer to thirteen down isn’t cockblocker, corazón.”

She trails her fingers over the two letters already filled in. “But it fits, see?” She laughs louder, and tears stream down her cheeks.

I can’t help but smile at her infectious joy. “If I’d known you were going to be this much trouble, I never would have asked for your help.”

Her laughter subsides, and she wipes the tears from her eyes. “Well, when you said you had the perfect way to spend forty minutes, I had no idea you meant completing the Sunday crossword.”

“I’ll have you know that the New York Times Crossword was an institution in our house.”

She places a hand over her heart. “Then I’m honored to be a part of it.”

Is she sassing me? I toss the paper onto the seat beside me and pull her into my arms. “So you agree that a crossword is the finest way to spend forty minutes on a Sunday afternoon?”

She presses her lips together and looks up, like she’s taking time to consider her answer. “No,” she eventually says.

“No?” I gasp, feigning indignation.

“I can think of way more fun things to do with you,” she says with a sultry purr.

“Is that so?” I tickle her sides, and she curls herself into a ball on my lap, giggling uncontrollably and trying to barricade her torso with her arms.

Before long, I’m laughing along with her and wondering how the fuck I ever lived without this woman in my life.

By the time Mel and I get to my father’s house, Mason and Elijah are already in the kitchen, bickering about how to make the best gravy.

They stop when we walk in, and both my brothers greet us with a hug. When the salutations are finished, Mason taps his mouth with a wooden spoon. “You know, I’m sure Mel can settle our Thanksgiving debate.”

“No. Absolutely not.” I shake my head. “You don’t get to make my wife a juror in your annual mashed potato proceedings.”

“What?” Mason feigns innocence with a dramatic shrug. “She’s the perfect person to decide. She’s never eaten with us before, so she has no idea whose mashed potatoes are whose. She has no skin in the game.” He chuckles at his own pun, and I roll my eyes.

“Thanksgiving is only four weeks away and she’ll be eating with us this year, so she should have a say in how the mashed potatoes are made,” Elijah adds.

Mel looks between the three of us, soaking up every word with a confused smile on her face.

“It’s ridiculous,” I argue. “We’re having mashed potatoes the way I always make them.”

“Dad doesn’t care one way or the other, and just because you and Drake like them that way doesn’t mean we should all be subjected to your subpar potatoes. It’s time for a revolution!” With a triumphant grin on his face, Mason hoists his spoon into the air. “And Melanie James shall be the one to lead us, heralding a new era of mashed potato splendor in the James household.”

Mel snorts a laugh but quickly composes herself. Gripping Mason’s elbow, she tips her chin up and smiles. “I’m in.”

“Hell yeah!” Mason shouts.

I lift one eyebrow and stare down my little brother. “What if she chooses my mashed potatoes?”

He scoffs. “Never gonna happen.”

I cross my arms over my chest and glare first at my brothers, then at my wife. “Fine. Bring it.”

Elijah narrows his eyes and frowns at me. “No cheating. No giving her any signals or anything like that.”

Mason nods. “Or any weird husband and wife telepathy shit.”

Mel’s laugh fills the kitchen.

I snatch the wooden spoon from Mason’s hand. “And exactly what weird telepathy shit do you think we can do, numbnuts? We’re not twins.”

Mason shrugs. “I don’t claim to understand the intricate workings of married life. All I’m saying is don’t try to sway her. I know you like to win by any means necessary.”

“I don’t need to cheat,” I assure him.

Elijah puffs out his chest. “I will present Mel with her options. You two can stand behind her while she decides so there’s no risk of foul play. Okay?”

“Fine,” Mason and I say in unison.

Elijah guides Mel to sit on a stool with her back to Mason and me, then clears his throat. “You understand the gravity of the decision you’re about to make, Melanie?” he asks, his tone all business.

She gives a firm nod. “I do.”

He takes a breath. “Do we have lumpy mashed potatoes with skins, butter, and a little salt and pepper? Or smooth, no skins, with cream and just a dash of salt?” I scowl at the way he all but licked his lips when he gave her the second option.

She hums and takes the time to properly consider her options. Mason and I wait with bated breath.

“Definitely smooth with cream,” she declares.

Mason roars triumphantly and jabs his finger into my sternum. “You just got schooled, son.”

I drop my head into my hands. “Jesus, Spitfire. What the hell have you done?”

She spins around to face me. “Oh no. Was that not yours?” I can tell she’s trying to sound contrite, but she can barely contain her laughter as Mason bounces around the kitchen like he just won the heavyweight title. He high-fives Elijah, and they both loudly declare their victory.

Mel wraps her arms around my waist. “I’m so sorry, Ice.” She giggles.

Our father’s loud voice cuts through the kitchen. “What’s all this shouting about?”

Mason fist pumps the air. “We’re having my mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving instead of Nathan’s.”

“No.” Dad shakes his head. “Skin on with butter. Just like your mom used to make.”

“But Dad,” Mason whines. “You said you didn’t care.”

Dad shrugs. “That was only to spare your feelings, son.”

Mel puts a hand to her mouth and stifles another giggle. Dad puts an arm around her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. “Lovely to see you, sweetheart.”